


not on anon

by megamegaturtle



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Tumblr AU, You've Got Mail inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4349261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By day, Bog King is the owner of a small furniture factory, but by night? He's a cinnamon roll blogger scottish-bogs who always has kind words for his followers. That and a plethora of awesome reviews about rock music and the latest horror films. </p><p>By night, butterfly-punch is a popular fanfic writer for "Magically Strangers", her favorite movie about a fairy king and a goblin princess's anti-love love story. By day, she's Marianne Sherwood, an ambassador for the government's Historical and Cultural Department  </p><p>Their paths cross in both real life and online, but they don't realize just how connected their lives have already been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not on anon

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my tumblr!au!!! I will be featuring fanworks from other people plus real tumblr users! This is not only a fanfic, but an open lover to the strange magic fandom! :) Enjoy!

  


  

For the millionth time that lunch hour, he looks at his phone: [ukthewhitewolf](http://tmblr.co/m9k2rEKJWnZ1mgWn538__rg) liked your post, [sibera-the-wanderer](http://tmblr.co/mzyGcMEcJn9lsSsp-2Sm8bQ) reblogged “Stop what you…”. From what started off as a drunk posting spree last night, this one text post picked up speed he never thought would happen. The numbers keep climbing higher and higher, almost skipping over the hundreds, leaping over the thousands, and gaining more momentum in the ten-thousands. He can’t even check his messages, his inbox becoming more and more flooded with asks, people telling him about all their heartbreak and finding solidarity with him.  _You’re so right. Love shouldn’t feel this way_  most of the asks read like from [zbops](http://tmblr.co/mq4jpht7SYgY0Igitft8JdA), people starting to realize that they should feel uplifted instead of miserable.

He lets out a dry laugh, amused by the thought of it. Here he is, Bog “Misery” King, giving advice to people on how to get over heartbreak. Leaning back in his office chair, the notifications keep flashing across the screen. Honestly, it is so ironic, the whole situation. Staring up at the ceiling, his blue eyes focus on that one water damaged tile, feeling quite the same. They both are damaged goods.

The clock ticks, reminding him that he is wasting seconds of his precious lunch break, but he doesn’t feel like eating.  His thoughts are too wrapped up in the constant notifications flashing across the screen on his phone and the guilt that accompanies them. These people, these virtual strangers on the internet are praising him for being strong and saying the thing that they needed to hear most, but he is  just like them. Love isn’t supposed to make you feel this miserable, he said to them, but was exactly what he is.

Miserable over a girl who left him.

 _It wasn’t always like that_ , he reminds himself, but the thought still made his stomach twist. The time, before Misery became his middle name, they were happy. He loved her.  He couldn’t give her the world, but he gave her what he could and at the time, he thought that was enough. When he first laid eyes on her, he was dumbstruck over her beauty. She was tall with legs that went on for days and she had dark hair always styled neatly. When she looked at him, she smiled, her blues bright and twinkling, smiling as her lips curved into a charming grin.

It took him three weeks to gather the courage to ask her out to dinner and movie, a cliche of a date, but one that he at least felt he could do. And when she said yes, she gave a knowing small smile that made his heart race faster than anything in the world. He couldn’t love loud or big, he learned. He wasn’t the type to be flashy, to be showy, but he tried to love her in his way. He would hold her hand as they walked side by side, squeezing every now and then just to remind himself that yes, it was all real.

There were times when he would bring her lunch at work, knowing that she was swamped with a deadline, but wouldn’t stay for long because he knew how much her own time was important to her. Other times, it was just knowing when to be needed. Like at two in the morning and she needed to talk because she didn’t like thunderstorms. Or being able to drop everything at once to go get her when her car broke down on the side of the highway. Sometimes, it was just saying I love you and giving her a kiss to make sure she knew it too.

Because to him, that was love.

They moved in together after a couple of years. It was a start of something greater, he thought. They were going to start building something together: a home.  _Home is where the heart is_  he remembered hearing as a boy and his heart was with with her. What were four walls and a roof over their heads when she was by his side. _A cardboard box could have been a castle if that’s what she wanted_ , he thought. But maybe he got too caught up in dreams of a future,  faces of children that hadn’t been born and wrinkles of an old couple that smiled . Maybe he got too ahead of himself that day he decided to go out on a whim and buy a ring, something simple but still beautiful, something that defined their love.  He couldn’t give her the world, he knew, but he could give her his life.  

He could give her all of his life.  

 _No_ , she said when she saw the ring and he was on one knee in the privacy of their home.  From where he kneeled, she held his heart in her hand and began to smother it, crushing it as her fingers wrapped around it.  _I just don’t feel the same about you anymore_ , she said out of the blue. Her voice was tight and her eyes were so big with fear. It felt out of the blue for him at least, her confession. Weren’t they happy? Weren’t they just laughing and smiling what felt like moments ago?

_What do you mean?_

_I just don’t love you anymore, Bog. I don’t think I ever loved you_.

Taking a deep breath, he knows that love is more than what he felt. He knows that to have love, she needed to love him in return. And he remembers the words, like acid in his memory, when they slipped out of his mouth  _But what about what I’ve done for you? I’ve given you all that I have._

 _But I never asked for that and you can’t make me take it_.

And like that day, her words wash over him like ice water freezing him in time so he can’t move forward. He knows that some of his misery isn’t because she left, but because he that he tried to force her to stay--he was so desperate for love, he would have bargained away anything, even her choice.

It wasn’t until she packed her suitcase and took her things that his anger and frustration receded and he began to think of what went wrong. With the apartment half empty and his home incomplete, maybe it wasn’t because she couldn’t accept his love, but maybe because his love wasn’t correct. Her rejection wasn’t her fault, but he--he couldn’t be the person she needed, he was only the person he thought that he should have been.

When he finally realized that, it was on a cold Monday morning as he was pouring his coffee, the brew more bitter since she had left.  _You can’t make me take it_ , she said on that fateful day and it suddenly clicked what she had meant. All the things he had done for her didn’t require obligation on her part to return his actions. He never thought that he required obligation at least in past, but after the haziness of anger left him, it became clear that he was wrong. He had demanded something in return for all that he had done: her love.

Perhaps that is what he finds most ironic about this situation. She is the one that got away, but it is because he chased her away with dreams and expectations too big and unfair for her and for the two of them.

 _You are my everything_ , he would say to her.

She smiled, but it was always small, never reaching her eyes.  _I can’t be that, Bog. Where are you then?_

He would take her hand a press a quick kiss to her palm.  _With you of course._

Though she smiled wider, it was never brighter.

He closes his eyes, trying to pull himself out of the memories from a time long gone. His chair creaks and the aircondition thrums in the background. The air tastes stale and it suffocates him slowly, the chill in the air clouding his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

With a grunt, he gets up from his seat and goes over to the thermostat to play with the dial, making a mental note to yell at Thang for touching it again.  How many times does he have to tell that knucklehead he wonders with a scowl. He coughs some, the back of his throat tickles with something thick, dreading the idea that me might be getting a cold.

The humming stops and he rubs his chest through the dress shirt without care about creating wrinkles, just hoping to create some friction to get warm. Suddenly, though it hits him again like that Monday he was making coffee. It all seems so clear.

Dragging a hand down his face, he laughs sourly, “Casey’s better without a suffocating fool like me.”

There’s a knock at his office door that causes him to check his watch. It’s one o’clock meaning that lunch is over.

“B.K.?” a gruff voice begins. “I just got the faxes from Lawrence about the Risk Management Workshop. And you have to call back the City about the factory being the finalist for the historical site landmark.”

Bog runs a hand through his dark hair, sighing, “Thanks, Stuff. I’ll be out in a second.”

Turning back to his desk, he goes to check his phone but finds it dead; the non-stop notifications must have killed it.

 _It is what it is_ , he decides. Searching for a charger, he plugs it before he forgets. Adjusting his suit and slapping his face, Bog reminds himself that his feelings are useless. They need to go away.

Turning the knob, he steps onto the platform that overlooks the factory floor. He can smell the sawdust and wood shavings from the furniture down below. His workers are shuffling in, rowdy men and boys laughing and horsing around. The women roll their eyes and giggle as they get back to their stations. He grips the steel railing, feeling a bit of pride rush through him as he watches the workers down below.

He manages a small smile.

_It is what it is._

With an intake of breath, he barks at the top of his lungs, “Lunch’s over!” His voice echoes across the warehouse. “Time to get to work!”

* * *

 

As it rolls into the early afternoon, Marianne finally wakes up after an eventful morning. She’s still laying in bed, tucked under the covers wearing a dress shirt and pajama bottoms, both uncomfortable and not at the same time. Curling on her side, she buries her face in a pillow, far past the point of no longer caring if her makeup gets smeared. She breathes in deep, smelling the fabric softener from the freshly cleaned sheets, grateful for once that she actually did laundry.

She inhales once more before grabbing her laptop resting on her nightstand. She shuffles her pillows around so she can sit up properly and flexes her fingers, ready to go. Turning it on, the computer boots up quickly and before she knows it her left index finger is ghosting over the T key, hitting enter with her other hand for her favorite website: tumblr.

“I just need to make a text post,” she mutters to herself.

Trying to gather her thoughts, she writes:  

> so, this is going to be really long and ranty post. i don’t care if you ignore it, but i just need to vent.
> 
> Okay, I planned to go to work today just like I planned going yesterday and I plan going tomorrow. Unlike most people, I actually like my job. I was going to meet these awesome new clients and--i don’t know what fucking possessed me--I wanted to look really hot, really good looking and professional for once in my life. I wish I could blame my fashionista of sister for putting all these fashiony ideas in my head, but honestly? I just wanted to feel like my old self.
> 
> Who knew that opening up a jewelry box could send me in a downward spiral?
> 
> This morning started innocently enough. I woke up on the right side of the bed and the birds? The birds were legit singing the best song. I felt energized. I felt like I was on fire. So, today I was like--I’m going to do my hair, straighten it! Bring out the flat iron that is beyond dusty and never used! Oh, and I’m going to wear different make-up, an awesome cut crease look my sister keeps begging me to do. I--me--I was going to forego wearing PURPLE EYESHADOW AND DARK LIPSTICK SO I COULD JUST WEAR SOME PINKY NUDE LIP (I’m not really sure what that means, but my sis says that it’s my mlbb: my lips but better). I PUT ON LIP LINER. LIP. LINER.
> 
> Usually, I’m like whatever how I look. I’m not out to impress anyone, I just want to do my job and enjoy my hobbies. But this morning? This morning I thought I looked beautiful and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.
> 
> And you know what have made me look even more amazing? A butterfly broach my mom gave me before she died. It has purple and pink stones and it’s set in gold. It’s really pretty and I never wear it. But I wanted to wear it today. I know that if my mom was alive she would have said “Wow, butterfly. You’re so pretty today.”
> 
> Instead of finding the broach...I find the stupid fucking charm bracelet from my ex. Ugh. I thought I tossed that thing in the trash with the rest of his stupid gifts, but guess not.  And he and I have been OVER FOR LIKE NINE MONTHS NOW, but UGH. just seeing it?   
>    
>  i broke down and cried my eyes out. Like ugly sobbing and as anti-princess as you can get. I feel so weak. I haven’t cried about him in months and I just saw that stupid bracelet...I just lost it. I just remembered how we used to be and how it end it was all a lie.
> 
> Ugh. It hurt. So I called in sick. Decided to take a mental health day.
> 
> I just woke up after a big nap but I still feel like shit. I feel a little bit better ranting about it and I’m really sorry I’m polluting my blog with my feelings and stuff, but yeah. I can’t really talk about this in real life.
> 
> thanks friends. this butterfly loves you.
> 
> #i’m sorry #ugh feelings #not blissfully marsh #ugh i just hate him and like that whole relationship and he’s so gross and dumb #okay butterfly is done being sad now #personal

She publishes the post on her blog with a sickly feeling resting in her chest. What if people find her annoying, what if they don’t like it? She doesn’t usually post angsty personal things, but today, she doesn’t care.   _It is what it is_ , she thinks.

“Stupid charm bracelet,” she mutters again to herself as she finally climbs out from bed, finally fed up with her pathetic behavior.  

She hobbles into the bathroom and her eyes widen at the sight of herself. Once beautiful hair and makeup is now tangled and smudged. Coming closer the mirror, she sees that her eyes are bright red and puffy, exhausted from all the crying that she did.

As she shimmies out of her dress shirt and pulls over an old tank top, she sighs to herself, disappointed that she would still have such a reaction about Roland. She runs her fingers through her hair a few times, catching the small knots. After a few moments, she decided she needs to start being productive.   

Grabbing the make-up remover, she catches her eye in the mirror and laughs, “You are such a mess, Marianne,” she says to her reflection. “Dawn would have a field day if she saw you now…”

It had been by chance she found the charm bracelet in the jewelry box, tucked away in an old box. When she opened it, it was as if someone hit replay on every memory of what she used to be, what they used to be.

 _Here, Buttercup_ , he would say with a drawl,  _I got you something._

She would blush when he would call her that,  _What is it?_

Twisting his hair, he would give her a dazzling smile,  _A charm bracelet. A charm for every month we’re together. Happy One Month, Marianne._

She remembers how happy she was when she saw the simple bracelet with a small butterfly charm. She remembers feeling warm and her heart skipping a beat, thinking that no man could ever be this thoughtful or sweet. Eagerly she rushed to put it on, wanting for all in the world to see.

_That way everyone knows I’m yours, Roland._

_Of course you’re mine, Buttercup. Who else’s would you be?_

As he promised,  each month on the their monthaversary, he would give her a new charm, some like flowers like roses and daisies while others were objects like shoes and purses.  And each month, she was readily clasped another one to the bracelet, unaware she was losing and more of herself to him in the process.

_You should give up saber, sweet-pea. I’ll protect you._

_Oh, darlin’. Are you wearing that? It’s not really_ our _style._

_I’m all you’ll ever need, Buttercup. Trust me._

“Yeah, I trusted you alright,” she mutters to herself again, drying her face more roughly than she intended.

She did trust him with all of heart. She trusted him enough to give up everything that she loved. She trusted him enough to not question when he came home with dark bruises on his neck.  She never wondered why his jackets would smell distinctly floral. She never demanded to know where he was all night when he would turn up at three in the morning.

She trusted his words, she trusted his lies, she trusted all that he did because he was so important to her.

Because to her, that was love.

Her stomach is still in knots, memories of him getting the best of her today. She leans over the sink, gripping the counter-top until her knuckles turn white. The tile is cool on the soles of her feet, a reminder of reality. She swallows as much air as she can and tethers herself to this moment, refusing to be swept anymore by a life that is dead.   _It is what it is_ , she thinks again and decides to leave her negative feelings in the bathroom.

When she returns to bed, she notices that her post has gotten a few notes, a few likes from followers and some replies from friends:     

[artemis-crimson](http://tmblr.co/mLhowslmH3QCJnMdiVGU0Yw) likes this

[nicky-flamel](http://tmblr.co/mghS7AP_EGnN2E2VYRUhqXA) likes this

[megamegaturtle](http://tmblr.co/mGzZh2-slMWbjoY-WHgFzkw) replies: If I wasn’t about to run out the door right now, I would write you this really long thing, but just know that I’m thinking about you. I’m so sorry butterfly. You’re amazing and awesome and all I can give you is HUGS!

megamegaturtle likes this

[pereprin](http://tmblr.co/mBjF6kxteppo1ETqRoT2x1g) replies: You got this, girl. I know it’s hard right now but BABY YOU’RE A FIREWOOOORK and THIS GUY IS A HUGE JERK. <3

pereprin likes this

Marianne tries to smile, touched by other people’s thoughtfulness. It’s funny, she realizes, how much easier it is for her to be open with people she doesn’t know in real life compared to people she does. But that’s the beauty of the internet, they don’t have to know her to understand her, they just have to listen. Feeling slightly better, she replies back to the people who asked about her, happy that both pereprin and turtle said such nice things.

She checks her inbox for a moment, the notification of ten messages seeming a bit daunting, glaring at her from the top of the page. She suspects that they are blissfully marsh requests, she did just reblog a drabble list the night before. When the new page loads, she finds that she was indeed correct, most of the messages are just requests for fanfics.

She clicks back to go to the dashboard, thinking of some ideas how to answer her requests. Even though her entire day has been ruined, she can at least waste it doing something that she likes, like mindlessly surfacing the web and writing Magically Strangers fanfiction. She constantly liking and reblogging posts that she sees on her dash that she really likes. It’s not the most thought provoking thing she could do as she scrolls down her dash, enjoying seeing post after post framed by blue. She tabs stories she needs to read that are written by her friends and reblogs and comments on fanart as quickly as she can. It’s the simplicity about this website that she likes after all.

But suddenly she stops short, taking her finger off the down arrow key to read something that she hasn’t seen before:

  


 

For a moment, she considers just ignoring it, but the sickly feeling is still clinging to her chest, smothering her heart as she remembers over and over again how he gave her the charm bracelet. She can almost hear him calling her name as he would proudly stroll through her front door and give her a kiss on the cheek. She can almost feel the way he used to link his hands with hers, their fingers intertwining like puzzle pieces.

It hurts.  

Even though she hates him for all the bad times, she hates him for all the good times too. In quiet of her room, away from any eyes that could see her, tears start to stream down her face and she’s crying again before she knows it.

* * *

 

His apartment is dark when he enters late into the evening, the only sound being a smoke alarm beeping for a new battery that he keeps forgetting to replace. Bog palms the wall by the key holder, running his hand up and down looking for the switch a few times before he finds it. The hallway light flickers for a brief second and he’s closing the door behind him, kicking off his black leather oxfords without a care.

Dropping his work bag by the door, he heads to the kitchen, having to duck his head a bit to get through the doorway. The smoke alarm from the second bedroom beeps again and he mumbles to himself to get a new battery tomorrow, but it’s soon forgotten as he warms up day old Chinese take-out for dinner.

As the food warms up, he shucks off his suit and tosses it into the dry cleaning pile. For a moment, he catches himself in the mirror, a image as the only light is from the hallway. Though he can’t see that well, some of scars on his torso catch the light and look whiter than usual. The only one under his left collarbone seems particularly ugly in the dim light. Coarse fingers run across it, remembering a fist fight that turned into a knife fight in the blink of an eye.

He’s done being caught up in the memories for the day he thinks and pulls a clean t-shirt as he heads to kitchen to grab his dinner. On the way to the living room, he passes the answering machine, a relic in this technological world, but he notices that he’s up four new messages making it a grand total of 48 unheard messages on the machine: a new record! Clearing a couple of beer cans and glasses from the night before from his desk, he sits down and turns on his computer.

Sinking back into the plush desk chair, he tries not to think about how boring his life has become, but it’s proving hard. Here he is, sitting in his underwear eating day old takeout and he only thing he has to look forward to is going online.

“At least...tumblr’s fun,” he says to himself, but he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Sighing, he gives up on the train of thought when he notices that he is able to go on the web. Opening his browser, he heads to the website before he knows it and is greeted by the navy blue dashboard. It is a relaxing color scheme, he thinks to himself. Yet before he can scroll down the posts from the other blog he follows, his taken aback by how many messages he has in his askbox.

The small grayish blue envelope is numbered in the hundreds and it is blowing his mind. He knows that he shouldn’t be surprised because his post from the night before got so much attention, but at the same time, Bog hasn’t always been the most popular person. Even though he’s just on the internet, it feels good to feel recognized for something small.

The warmth in his chest feels nice and there is no doubting the pride that he feels for being so actively nice. 

Most of the messages, he sees, are multiple gray faces with sunglasses, just people who wanted to drop a quick message, some more sad than others, but they go on with their day. Like in the morning, the messages still all say the same thing like:

  


 

But he doesn’t mind. He’s not feeling as much as fraud as he did earlier in the day he as reads all the messages, though simple, really makes a difference in his attitude. 

Smiling, he continues to enjoy the quiet of his apartment as he scrolls through the rest of the messages. How on earth he felt so guilty today is beyond him in this moment because he knows that he is positively glowing. In the privacy of his own home, he takes in the moment without hesitation, grasping onto it like it would disappear.

Because when happiness finally graces his life, it somehow always goes away. And for this moment, after the guilt and the old memories, Bog just wants to feel pride in being himself--just wants to feel selfish in enjoying the moment. 

After all, he’s human like the rest of them. 

In what seems like a sea of endless gray faces again, pops up a message of a different kind, he realizes as he takes a moment to read it:

  


 

And he doesn’t know what posses him, but before he can stop, he’s already replying back to her. 

> Haha. I guess I do have a rather “bad boy blog”, but I think that it’s just all the rock music I post. That and the horror films. Take your pick. 
> 
> I’m sorry that you had a terrible day remembering an ex, but the words were true, love isn’t supposed to make you feel that way. And there is nothing wrong with crying about it either. I cried last night when I wrote the post in the first place. It was ugly and terrible mess. Just god awful. Pretty sure monsters under the bed looked better than me, but I think that’s just most days. 
> 
> But I won’t tell anyone you cried if you won’t tell anyone about me, Tough Girl.   
>    
>  Yet, um. I’m not sure how phrase this, but out of all the messages I received, I just had to reply to this one because what you said about being guarded. That’s how I feel most of the time and it’s not the world’s most wonderful feeling, but thank you for sharing with me about your day.   
>    
>  I was still having a crappy day remembering my ex and it sucked so I get how you felt. If you ever want to talk or chat? Well, my inbox is always open.   
>    
>  Nice butterfly btw. 
> 
> Okay. I’m going to stop typing now...
> 
> Oh god. It’s getting worse. Okay Bye.  

  
He answers it privately and clicks the post button faster than he can think and automatically regrets saying anything at all. He wants to slam his head against the desk, but at this point in time, he doubts he has any brain cells left to kill.   
  
Turning on the TV, he watches a re-run of  _House_  and eats his dinner as he slowly scrolls through his dashboard reblogging a few things here and there.

He’s trying to not look at the the mail button, but like a teenager (god, how many years has it been since he was a teenager), he’s wondering when she’ll see it. Well, he assumes that it’s a girl. He’s not sure, he should check, be PC. 

But as he’s going to find her page, there is flash of a message on the top of the screen, the mail button having a one hanging on it’s corner. Quickly, he clicks on this inbox and grins a bit as he sees it’s from her. 

> Horror movies and rock music is kinda bad boy material. But hey, you have good taste. What’s your least favorite movie and least favorite band? (See, everyone always asks about most favorite, but you know, I try to be a little different). 
> 
> And haha. I won’t tell a soul that you cried. It was rather calming though. I felt good after, like I said. Like---I let go a lot of things that were bothering me. Crying is so weird like that. And Tough Girl? Nicknames already? Is this one of his instant internet friendship things? Did you see my blog? My blog is weird hahaha. Be forewarned, sir. That if we’re internet buddies you’ll never be able to get rid of me! 
> 
> But I suppose that this is fate that you responded to message like so.../pours champagne and toasts. Here’s to new friendship because the internet is weird and connects people who have/had broken hearts. I hope you love playing 20 questions because that’s the best part :) 
> 
>  

He grins and excitement grows in his chest.

Maybe his life isn’t so boring after all. 

Not on the internet, at least. 


End file.
